


2015 we don't care

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Public Display of Affection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 04:31:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4208022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>what if harry and nick gave zero fucks?</p>
            </blockquote>





	2015 we don't care

**Author's Note:**

> for a tumblr prompt asking for nick & harry like cara & michelle were in 2014, all over each other but not confirmed as dating. originally posted in april 2014 
> 
> come say hey [here](http://www.ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com) !

“So, are you dating, Harry?” the pap yells. “Or is he just your friend?" 

Harry’s walking very deliberately, swaying a bit, his hand linked in Nick’s. The car is a block away, because it’s massively crowded in front of the club. Nick hopes they’ll make it. It’d be a bit embarrassing to have to ask a pap to help them walk because they’re both twatted. 

"Harry!” the guy yells. “Nick! C’mon, why don’t you-" 

"He’s my best friend,” Harry calls, turning around and grinning wide. “He’s my best friiieeend, I know it’s your job, but can you leave us alone for a little bit, thank you! Cheers, mate, have a great night!" 

"Shut up,” Nick says, snorting with laughter, and Harry pulls him in by the hand and kisses him fiercely, both of them stumbling forward and snogging and clutching each other’s waists. 

Oh, that’ll be a picture. Best fucking friends, indeed.

“Remember what we said,” Harry says into his mouth, when Nick makes an unsure sort of sound against Harry’s tongue. He tastes like sour mix and the tang of whiskey. “2015, we don’t care." 

Nick’s eyes hurt from the flash. He hopes he doesn’t look old in the photos tomorrow, that’s almost worse than being seen snogging Harry Styles. Nick’s got his priorities in order.

"I know,” he says, and oh, thank fuck, there’s the car. Harry opens the backseat, waves Nick inside like a damn chauffeur, and then gives a cheery wave to the paps and slides in after Nick. 

“Nick’s house, please,” he says to the driver, very politely, like he’ll have any idea where that is. 

“Er, it’s in Primrose Hill,” Nick says, rolling his eyes, and he rattles off the address, leans back in his seat as the car pulls away from the curb. 

Harry’s holding his hand on the seat between them. 

“That might ruffle a few feathers tomorrow, popstar,” Nick says, stroking his thumb over the top of Harry’s hand. 

“2015,” Harry mumbles, yawning, head tipped against the window. “You promised. No more caring." 

"I know,” Nick says, half-laughing, scrubbing a palm over his face. “I did promise." 

He looks over. Harry’s asleep, mouth soft and open, hand gone slack in Nick’s, and Nick lets out a breath. He promised, and he’ll keep it.  

—

It’s been a bit of a firestorm, since they decided to not care, but it’s easier to lock down the bad press than Nick thought it would be. He just stops reading Heat, stops reading Daily Mail, stops reading his Twitter notifications, and stops reading his Instagram comments. Oh, and he ignores texts from people he barely knows who are coming out of the woodwork by the fistful, and the BBC puts another security guard at the front door because Nick’s getting screamed at most times he walks in and out. 

You know, nothing too big. 

Well.

Nick’s going  _mad,_ a tiny bit. But Harry’s home from tour, and now that they’re doing this he’s over at Nick’s all the time, so it’s not - there are good bits, too. It’s not all cyber-harassment and constantly seeing his face on the front of tabloids in the newsstands. 

And to be honest, it’s - well, Nick likes a bit of attention, always has, and there’s something defiantly satisfying about being out with Harry Styles. Out like,  _out_ -out. Nick knows what it’s like to be a complete idiot in front of the cameras (See: falling on his arse in Lily Allen drag), but Harry’s always been quite good. A couple drunk photos here and there, but in general he’s been quite the sweet, bland, friendly little popstar in front of the cameras.

Not anymore.

Well, he’s still friendly - it’d take more than a determination to come out all over the bloody country to make Harry Styles not be friendly. But he’s just stopped giving a shit. 

It’s pretty fucking great. 

"Which one is he?” Nick says a week later, squinting out at the pitch, where somewhere out there, Louis Tomlinson is kicking a ball around for Doncaster. Or whatever. Nick’s only here because Harry forced him to come, and it was in London. He wouldn’t  _drive_  anywhere for football.

Harry’s holding his hand, clutching a coffee cup with the other, and there are about a hundred teenage girls sat below them, buzzing and yelling occasionally. Nick doesn’t mind them, really. Mostly only because they’re sat in a high roped-off VIP section so they can’t  _actually_  stab him in the throat with their Lisa Frank pens. 

“Is Lisa Frank still a thing?” he asks Harry, and Harry says, distractedly, “What?" 

He squeezes Nick’s thigh, yells, “Nice one, Louis!” and a chorus of teenage girl screams rise to the heavens. It is a bit cute, Harry supporting his bandmate and being all rah rah rah. If Nick was a fourteen year old girl, he’d probably scream too. 

"Lisa Frank,” Nick says, not willing to give this one up. “Is that still around?" 

"Is that a person?” Harry says, still staring intently at the pitch. 

“No!” Nick says, offended. “Well. Yes, I mean, but it’s a brand, of like. School supplies, like notebooks and pens and stuff. Oh god, whatever, you’re such an infant." 

A whistle blows, and everyone stops running around. Ah, Nick would be a great sport commentator. 

Harry turns to him. His cheeks are flushed from the slight cold, and he has a scarf wrapped round his neck. He looks - well. Nick’s watching  _football_  for him, he doesn’t need to wax poetic about how good Harry looks. 

"I’m your infant,” Harry says, grinning at him and winking, and Nick wrinkles his nose. 

“That’s very very disturbing, please never say it again." 

"Shut up,” Harry laughs, stroking a hand up Nick’s back and pulling him into a kiss. 

Harry’s mouth is soft and slick and deliciously hot, a stark contrast to the nippy air against Nick’s face. Nick tugs a hand through Harry’s curls, kisses the bow of his perfect lush bottom lip and then pulls away, drawing in a shaky breath, trying not to grin too obviously. He can feel it on his face though, a big stupid mark of how stupidly happy he is.  _Stupid_.

“2015,” Harry reminds him, eyes sort of - soft, tugging on Nick’s hand. 

“I know, Haz.” Nick cups Harry’s jaw in one hand, kisses his forehead, trying not to think about the cameras. “I know." 

Harry’s eyes flicker, and he quietly scoots closer to Nick in his seat, presses their palms together and squeezes  _hard._

"Sorry,” he says, muffled. “That it’s hard, with me. Sorry I make stuff so hard." 

Nick’s chest does a sad little clench at the sound of Harry’s voice. 

"Oh, love,” he whispers, pressing in close, kissing in his thick curls. “Never apologize for getting me hard." 

Harry laughs, a choked sound, like it was torn out of him. 

"You’re the worst person in the world,” he says, turning to Nick, licking his bottom lip. “Trying to be serious with you, and you go on about your prick-" 

Nick snorts, carefully swipes a piece of scarf fluff off Harry’s smooth cheek and then runs his thumb down to Harry’s bottom lip, drags it against the skin. Harry shivers under his touch. 

"S’not your fault,” Nick says, voice cracking so he sounds like a teenager. The popstar just brings it out in him, apparently. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be, anyway. Well, I mean with you. I don’t particularly want to be at this football match, but that’s another story-" 

"Shut up,” Harry says, laughing a little, losing the worried crease of his brow. Which is good, since that was Nick’s intention. That’s always his intention, if he’s honest. “And, like. Thanks." 

"For what?” Nick says, looking back at the field, slipping an arm around Harry’s shoulders. Harry cuddles into him, easily. 

“For coming to this,” Harry murmurs. “For being stupid with me, in public. Thanks for doing - this. With me." 

Nick closes his eyes for a second. He’ll never understand how he got here - how a beautiful sought-after popstar is fucking  _thanking_  him for his company. He’ll never, never understand how he got so lucky. 

"Course,” he says, voice rough. “Of course, Harry." 

Harry scritches his fingernails over Nick’s palm, gentle. 

"You’re - I just. You’re so-” he starts, Nick straining to hear, and then the whistle blows again and Harry stiffens, looks at the field, the moment lost. 

It’s alright. Nick pulls him closer, Harry warm and tucked under his arm and his to keep, now. They’ll have plenty of moments, anyway. 

The next day the main headline on Heat - read out in a triumphant voice by Fiona on air during the show - is as follows:

“Bromantic buddies Nick Grimshaw and -  _cough_ , a certain popstar we won’t mention by name - attend Louis Tomlinson’s charity match. See all the TOO CUTE photos of the BFFs!” 

"You went to a football match?” Matt says, fake-gasping. “Well, color me surprised, Nicholas Grimshaw." 

"I’ll do a lot for my bromantic buddy, what can I say,” Nick laughs, adjusting his headphones. 

“Yeah, like give him mouth to mouth, apparently,” Ian says, scanning the article, giving him a cheeky smile. “Isn’t that sweet of you." 

"I’m practically a medical doctor,” Nick agrees, looking at the photos. Ugh, his profile is sort of the  _worst._ Harry looks perfect as always. “My services are available, look me up-“ 

Matt hits a button, grinning evilly, and Showbot says, “I  _always_  accept D-“ 

“We know, we know,” Ian laughs, and Nick has to cover his mouth so he won’t snort into mic. 

“We’ve got some really good new records coming up,” he says, letting out a laugh. “And then Showquizness in a bit, but first - here’s the latest off Rih-Rih." 

He hits Play, and smacks at Ian’s arm. Ian squawks. 

"What?" 

Nick just shakes his head, spins his chair around and checks his phone. 

Harry’s texted - _Th_ _anks for the CPR grimshaw ;)_

Fucking idiot. Nick ignores the warm glowy feeling he gets in his belly whenever he finds out Harry’s listening - it’s probably just indigestion or something, his egg did seem suspiciously wobbly and undercooked this morning - and types back -  _dr. grimshaw here ready for business!_

He adds three syringe emojis and a skull. 

The song’s nearly over when Harry texts back again. 

_I’m feeling a little faint :( :(_  
Probably need you to come home straight after the show.  
Apply your mouth to my person immediately, dr. G 

Nick lets out a snort. 

_DOCTOR G THAT’S MY NEW RAP NAME,_ he writes back. 

And then- as the notes fade out:

_whatever you say, popstar. sit tight i’ll see you soon x_


End file.
